Page 72 of Beyond the Lines
“That’s not from crying.” He points to the mark on my neck, his voice disturbingly calm. “Did someone do something to you? Did they hurt you?”
The irony of the situation hits me like a punch to the gut; the “someone” he’s worried about, that he’s ready to fight for me, is his teammate, his friend, and the person he trusts most on the ice.
Buthurt?
I’m not so sure.
I don’t really knowwhatit was, or how I feel.
But I’m not sure it’shurt.
“No one! Nothing!” I blurt out, scrambling to my feet, clutching my backpack to my chest like a shield. I force a smile. “I’m fine, Mike. Really. I’ll text you later.”
I don’t wait for his response. I can’t. If I stay another second, he’ll see through me completely. He’s known me too long not to recognize when I’m lying through my teeth, and as I push through the double doors into the crisp air, I can feel his gaze on my back.
I sprint across the quad as if being chased by my poor choices. Thankfully, the campus is quiet. That means fewer witnesses to my walk of shame. I keep my head down anyway, praying I don’t run into anyone else I know, because one mortifying encounter per day is my limit, thanks.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I don’t need to look to know it’s Declan. I ignore it, not quite ready to litigate what happened with him, and not even sure what he’d say to me right now.
Hey, thanks for sucking me off in a public bathroom…
My cock. In you. Tomorrow. Deal?
God, I gave him a blow job. In abathroom. Apublicbathroom. The kind of place normal people avoid touching anything except what’s required to pee and escape. Yet I’d knelt onthatfloor, swallowed as much of hisamplecock as I could, and let him blowin my mouth…
The worst part?
Some dirty corner of my mind is already replaying it in glorious HD, remembering how he tasted, the sounds he made, and the way his eyes never left mine. It was as delicious controlling him like that—bringing him undone—as it was having him between my legs.
Argh!My mind screams.Stop!
My dorm comes into view, and I’ve never been so grateful for its ugly red brick facade. I flash my ID at the security desk without making eye contact, because I know every judgment the guard is making without needing to look, and then bolt for the stairs.
Three flights later, I’m in my room, and the moment the door closes behind me, I lock it. I take three long, steadying breaths, glad—for the first timeever—that Em isn’t around, because I just need a moment.
Or a day.
Or maybe a few months.
I head for my bed, climb in, and pull the covers up over my head, lost in a maelstrom of my own conflicting thoughts. This isn’t me. I don’t hook up with guys in bathrooms. I don’t betray my brother’s trust. I don’t fall for guys who lie to me and criticize my art in front of everyone.
Except, apparently, I do.
Because, underneath the shame and fear and confusion, there’s something else I’m trying to ignore. A warm, pulsingfeeling that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way Declan touched me. The way he looked at me. The words he said about my art.
But how can I trust any of that?
What if he’s just saying what he thinks will get me to forgive him.
To sleep with him.
Guys always do.
But what do I even know about what kind of guy Declan is? Am I judging him too harshly because he plays hockey? Chris had been charming too, and he’d said all the right things, looked at me like I was the only girl in the world, taken me to bed, and treated me like his queen…
Until I wasn’t.
A sob escapes me, followed by another. I bury my face in my pillow, but there’s no stopping the hot tears that spill down my cheeks. “Fucking hell, Lea,” I say.
